


Two Households

by likeadeuce



Category: X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Parental Death, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9364172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: The intersecting lives of the Summers and Lehnsherr/Dane families





	1. Year One

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in an old Google doc and realized I had started an epic about movieverse Alex Summers & Lorna Dane. . .I don't know, maybe ten years ago? Chapter One was posted on LiveJournal at some point but I'm fairly sure I never posted or archived the rest of it.
> 
> It's not really tight enough to count as a complete work or even an 'unfinished' WIP but I rather liked these four scenes from a continuity nobody cares about anymore and maybe I'll write another Alex/Lorna piece off of this in the future.

Alex Summers sat on the foot of Scott's hospital bed, crossed his arms, and thrust out his lower lip in that stubborn way his brother knew all too well. "I don't want to go."

Scott clenched his jaw, drew in a breath, and silently repeated the mantra his mother had taught him for occasions like this one. _He's just a kid, he's just a kid, he's just a kid._ "It's Hawaii, numbnuts," Scott said. "Who doesn't want to go to Hawaii?" 

"Hawaii's dumb," Alex said.

"Beaches and sunshine are dumb?" Scott answered. "You really are a doofus. I wish I could go to Hawaii." His voice didn't trip over the last sentence, not even a little.

"Beaches _are_ dumb," Alex insisted. "And there's sunshine in Alaska. There's sunshine all night in the summer. You know that. Dad says –"

"There's nobody _in_ Alaska," Scott snapped. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in a frigging hospital in frigging Omaha, which is like – five thousand miles from Alaska. Even if you could get back to Anchorage, there's nobody –"

"My friends!" said Alex, but Scott saw a quiver of uncertainty, for the first time, in that stubborn, obnoxious little jaw. "Billy and Gavin and Spencer and –"

" _Kids_? Those kids you used to play rocket ships with? Do you think one of them's going to adopt you or -?" Alex's lip started to tremble. Scott sat up and reached out for him, careful not to tangle in the tubes and wires that connected instruments to his chest and arm. "Come here." Scott touched the remote control on the side of the bed, hoping the television's noise would muffle some of the awkwardness if his brother started to cry. Scott looked out in the hall, saw Mrs. Masters talking with a nurse, and waved. She waved back, vaguely, in his direction, then turned back to her conversation.

"Listen, little bro." Scott pulled part of his blanket over Alex's shoulder. "We're kids. Kids don't get to decide this stuff, other people decide it for us. So you're going to Hawaii, with the Masterses – they're really nice; they're friends of mom and dad. You're going to live with them and I'm staying here. There's a special –" institution " – school I can go to. And doctors who can help me with –" Memory loss. Post-traumatic stress. Insanity. Whatever it was that let him go to sleep in a warm house in Anchorage and wake up six months later in a clinic half a continent away, remembering nothing in between, only knowing because people kept telling him that he'd survived a plane crash, that his parents were dead, that everything that used to be his life was gone, except for his brother. His brother, who he now had to talk into wanting to leave him. "My headaches," Scott said. "They're going to help me with my headaches."

Alex snuggled up next to him. "I get headaches," he said with a yawn. He reached over to flick the remote control. Scott watched the channels change as he waited for the rest, waited for Alex to say, _I want to stay with you._ If the boy had opened up and said it, just once -- well, Scott would have fought tooth and nail. He was only ten years old, maybe there was nothing he could do, but he would have fought to stay together even if meant no Hawaii for either of them. Corporal and Mrs. Masters had been friends with his parents, but they couldn't be expected to take on _two_ children, when they already had their own. Especially not when one of the children had (Scott listened to the doctors, even when they thought he wasn't) a history of severe trauma, an uncertain prognosis, the possibility that he might always require special attention. Mrs. Masters (and Scott listened to this part of the conversation, too) wasn't a bad person, but there was only so much her family could do. They were at the mercy the military; they had to keep moving from place to place. They couldn't give a boy like Scott the stability that he needed.

He understood. He understood he was a stone around his brother's neck, but he also knew he was family and if Alex wanted his family more than he wanted blue skies and beaches, and life at a normal school, Scott would fight with his life to keep them together. He would look for a way if Alex would only say –

"Volcanoes." 

Scott frowned. "Okay, what? Now I know you're mental."

Alex pointed at the television screen. He had stopped the remote on some kind of nature special, showing footage of a mountain spewing ash and hot lava. "Volcanoes made the Hawaiian Islands. Millions of years ago, and stuff. Maybe if I move there –"

"I don't think the Masterses are going to let you play in a volcano," Scott said cautiously.

"Most of them aren't _active_ anymore," Alex said, with the contempt that only a seven year old can bring to a subject he can't possibly understand. "But you can still see the rocks, and the land, and everything from when they were. If I can move to Hawaii I can be a scientist. And famous. And I can go all over the world like Jacques Cousteau." He yawned and nestled closer to Scott. "Only with volcanoes."

"Maybe you'll have a TV show," Scott felt his throat tighten. "And I could – I could watch it –"

"You wouldn't watch it. You don't like science. It's okay. Maybe in my spare time I'll do a show about cars."

"That would be nice," Scott agreed, and they kept talking, planning, mapping an implausible course for Alex's future, which was only important for being a future without his brother in it. 

_He got over that fast,_ Scott thought, before remembering, _He's just a kid, he's just a kid._ And for a second, a voice in the back of his mind protested, _So am I. I'm ten years old and it shouldn't be my job to take the one person who still matters in my life and talk him into leaving me._

Mrs. Masters walked by in the hall, and Scott gave her a thumbs-up sign, and then he pushed all the doubt and protest to the back of his mind. He was doing the right thing.

Scott turned back to his brother and squeezed him tightly, knowing it was the right thing, and ready to move forward with his own stripped-down life. Ten years old and starting over.

Scott Summers, Year One.


	2. Year Four

Scott wondered whether they thought he couldn't hear.

"Pure energy," the first voice was saying. "A fourteen year old boy who shoots pure solar energy out of his eyes." The voice didn't sound like any of the doctors Scott had met so far, and -– even if you only counted the ones who had been in the room when he was conscious and lucid enough to distinguish them -– there had been a lot. This voice sounded British, which was unusual, and surprisingly soft, measured, and strangely matter-of-fact considering the bizarre situation it was describing – circumstances Scott could never have believed if they hadn't been happening to him.

"Shooting uncontrollably, Charles," said a second voice. "Don't forget that minor detail." This voice sounded English, too, but with a trace of something else – too perfect, almost, so it seemed like the man might be trying to hide something. 

"I haven't forgotten, Erik," the first man, Charles, answered. Scott heard his footsteps moving closer to the bed. "This is why the boy needs our help so urgently."

"Hmm," said Erik, and he managed to convey a good deal of skepticism in that single syllable.

"Now, now. Have you forgotten Jean's condition when we first –-"

"Jean's condition," Erik interrupted, "is under control, or so you keep assuring me. It also happens that Jean's ability is one that you, of all people, are as well-equipped to treat as anyone in the world." Erik's footsteps moved closer and Scott, who had gotten used to listening without relying on his eyes, could tell that one of them was standing at either side of him. He didn't try to open his eyes, because -– even if he had wanted to, if the thought hadn't terrified him –- he knew he would encounter the tight, stiff blindfold. He couldn't move the blindfold because his hands were restrained by cuffs on the side of the bed. Scott could only lie there, and listen. "Tell me, Charles," said Erik. "How much experience do _you_ have in containing massive quantities of pure solar energy?"

"I have ideas," Charles answered.

"And if they don't work? Do you propose we bring him back to the home for stray animals here, and try to get our bribe money back." 

Scott stiffened, wishing he had a way to fight. He was scared of the attendants in the hospital; he had heard the things they whispered. _Monster. . .freak. . .living time bomb. . .turn up the drugs, pull the plug, you'll be doing the world a favor. . .nobody will miss it.. .nobody will care._ Scott understood those people. He knew what they wanted, and why they wanted it. He had no idea about these men.

And then the one called Erik let out a sigh, and when he spoke, he sounded like a different man. Scott could almost hear the smile in his voice. "I know you mean well, old friend, but we can't save them all. Not immediately. Not through the means that _you_ advocate." 

"I have a feeling about this one," said Charles. "You had a feeling about the Munroe girl, I have a feeling about this one."

"Yes yes, and as you have pointed out in the past, your feelings mean more than my feelings, because yours are actually based on your intuitive gift, and mine are just a means of getting my way."

"I said no such thing." The hostility in their voices, before, had made sense to Scott. This new tone, something like affection, did not. Before he could think about it more, he felt a hand -– Charles' hand -– on his wrist. He hadn't been touched that way, almost tenderly, for longer than he cared to remember. "Now," said Charles, "Why don't we ask the boy?" 

"I can hear everything you're saying, you know," Scott said. His voice felt rusty with disuse, but the words came out clear enough. "They've got me drugged, but I'm not fucking dead."

Erik's reaction was loud, sudden, and if it had made any sense for the man to laugh, Scott would have thought it was laughter. "Of course we know. Or. . .my friend Charles knew, although I imagine he supposed that I didn't. Now. Young man --"

"My name is Scott."

"Young Scott. Tell us the truth. Would you like to leave this foul-smelling place, permanently, to embark with two strangers, whose intentions you have no way of knowing, on a demented and dangerous mission with a minuscule chance of success?"

"Erik –" There was a warning in Charles' voice, which surprised Scott. Until that moment, he would have assumed Erik was the dominant member in whatever kind of bizarre partnership this was. After that single simple word, he could no longer be sure.

"I'm giving the boy a chance to exercise his free will, Charles. I thought you would approve. Well, Scott?"

"Well –" Scott responded. He felt like an idiot, tied down and helpless, having a conversationwith two strange men that he couldn't see. This had to be a test, but he had no idea whether he should even try to pass. "I guess it depends. I can't tell whether you two are trying to adopt me or to draft me." 

Erik let out another bark of laughter, but Charles tightened his grip on Scott's hand. _My name is Professor Charles Xavier,_ he said and for a moment Scott thought something was wrong with his hearing, because the words didn't seem to be coming into his ears in the ordinary way. _It's all right, Scott. You will become accustomed to this method of communication. What my colleague, Dr. Erik Lehnsherr, and I both want is to help you. We are the headmasters of an extraordinary school for extraordinary students. We would like to ask you to join us._

"Charles would like to ask you to join us," Erik corrected, speaking out loud. "I have not yet made up my mind how I feel about you. Tell me. Scott. Are you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?" Scott asked. 

"Of us. Naturally."

Scott thought, then, of opening his eyes and seeing a flood of red light. Of watching glass and concrete fly in front of him. He thought of the screams, of the way he had pressed his eyes shut and doubled over. How he hadn't fought it when they came from him, slipped the needle into his veins and let him sleep. He thought of waking up, tied to the bed, unable to open his eyes, and overhearing the voices of strangers, wondering out loud how soon was too soon for them to let him die, and pretend it had been an accident.

"No," Scott said. "No. I'm not afraid of anything."

"A liar," Erik said promptly. "Excellent. Charles, I'm afraid I misjudged. There may be hope for this one yet. You can have your way only – promise me – I get to make the decision, when it comes to Lorna."


	3. Year Eight

"I can't do this right now, Scott!" Jean cried out. "I've got a headache."

The students on the front lawn of the school came to a screeching halt, Frisbees in hand, and a titter of laughter ran over the group Scott clutched one hand around his disk, raised the other to his forehead, on top of the visor, and prayed that no one would make the obvious joke.

Betsy rose to the challenge –- of course she did –- and in that resonant, entitled, English rich-girl voice, said, "I'll have 'Things Jean Grey might say on her wedding night' for five hundred. . ."

Jean whirled on Betsy and pointed. "Screw you, Braddock!"

"I don't know about that one," Betsy answered. "I'm flattered but I'm not sure Scott's that open-minded. Are you that open-minded, Scott?" She stared at him – there was something disconcerting about Betsy, no, Psylocke's gaze, and Scott found himself picturing, in vivid detail, Jean – the way she'd been the night before. Lying beneath him, the perfume of her skin, the swell of her breasts against his hand. . .

And the memory snapped shut, just as suddenly, as Jean placed a hand on his shoulder. "His mind is not open to _you_ , Psylocke."

A chorus of "Oooh," and "Busted," and "Telepath fight!" ran through the group. Scott expected to see Betsy glowering at the two of them, except he didn't say anything because Jean was kissing him, her forehead pressed against his visor.

Some people clapped and some people jeered, and when they pulled out of the kiss, Scott could see that Gambit was making a gagging gesture. "That's right, Remy," Scott heard himself saying "I'd be jealous of me, too." That actually drew a few laughs, and so Scott decided to ride on the other students' goodwill as long as he could. "Okay, here's a radical suggestion. What if we lay off the agility training for a while and just – you know – play Frisbee." He glanced at Ororo as he spoke because, as much as everybody else liked to bitch about Scott telling them what to do, she was the only one who ever successfully countermanded him. 

Ororo shrugged. "It was your idea in the first place. Jean's not feeling good, and everybody's a little distracted right now, anyway, wondering what's up with –" She nodded toward the wide front doors, which picked that moment to open. Everyone scrambled toward the steps, as Professor Lehnsherr walked out side by side with a girl who looked sixteen or so, about the age of the older students. She wore a tartan kilt, a white blouse, and those shoes with the big buckles (Mary Sues, were they?) Her long hair was tied back with a ribbon, and it was also – according to Jean, and to everybody who had seen her, though colors were all the same to Scott – a brilliant shade of emerald green. The girl had shown up that morning in a cab, announcing she needed to see Professor Lehnsherr, and disappeared into the upstairs office for several hours. Neither she, Lehnsherr, nor Professor Xavier had been seen since then, though Ororo dutifully reported that she was in the kitchen when Xavier had paged the housekeeper to bring up tea service for three. Scott had suggested drills on the front lawn as a form of distraction, although he was as curious as any of them. 

And, when Lehnsherr and the girl stepped onto the porch, Scott moved, alongside Jean, to get a view. Erik stood behind her, hands on both of her shoulders, and there was something odd about the gesture. Scott couldn't quite pin it down, what it made him think of, but he knew Erik didn't stand that way with any of the other students. Not even Jean.

"Boys and girls," Erik began and Scott thought that he was seventeen, that he knew how to hold his own in a fight and that he'd been to bed with a beautiful woman and he was counting the minutes until he could do it again. To Erik, they would always be boys and girls. "I understand that there has been some speculation about our _visitor_ \--" He hit the last word hard, emphasizing the girls' status. Whatever she might be, she wasn't one of them, at least not yet. "This is Lorna Dane," he said.

Lorna gave a little wave, a Princess Di/Miss America sort of wave, and when she said, "Hello, all," there was the hint of an English accent.

"Lorna will be staying with us, during her holidays from St. Moritz Preparatory School in Switzerland. I hope that you will all welcome her during her extended visit. You see –" He broke into a warm smile, one that he showed off rarely if at all. Scott was already trying to process the name -- Lorna, Lorna, where had he heard that? -- when Erik continued. "You see, Lorna Dane is my daughter."

*

Jean forgot her headache, right away, and was the first to offer Lorna a tour of the grounds. Ororo quickly added herself to the party and, if Scott hadn't already felt superfluous, the look that Lehnsherr gave Remy when _he_ offered to go would have dissuaded him. Maybe there was a boy on Earth with the nerve to show any kind of interest in Erik's daughter in plain sight of the man, but Scott doubted he had met the kid yet.

The others dispersed, Erik smiling his approval at Lorna's quick rapport with Jean and Ororo, his obvious favorites among the students. A few went back to the Frisbee game, while Betsy rolled her eyes at Remy, and dragged him off somewhere. To pout together, presumably, or do other things Scott didn't want to think about, mostly because he suspected they were meant to teach some sort of lesson to _him_. Scott didn't know how else to interpret the sort of free-floating tension that had been everywhere in the past weeks, but the idea of being wanted – even stranger, of being with someone that other people wanted – was still new to him. He couldn't entirely wrap his brain around the possibility that his being blazingly, stupidly happy with Jean could be some sort of affront to people he still tried to think of as his friends.

It was really weird. But it wasn't the weirdest thing, right now. The weirdest thing was that Scott was standing on the front porch, alone, with Professor Lehnsherr. When Lehnsherr turned to go inside Scott – half to his own surprise – moved to follow him.

"Professor," he began. "I realize that from a personal point of view, this might not be my business -–"

"You are correct, Cyclops. It is not your personal business. However –-?"

"However, considering that the situation might have an impact on the other students, I was just wondering -–"

Erik stopped abruptly and turned to face Scott. "About my daughter? Surely, there's no real mystery. I was married to her mother, for a very short time, many years ago. I was younger then –-" He laughed, a bitter familiar laugh, but for the first time, Scott thought that Lehnsherr might be the object of his own scorn. When he spoke again, he almost seemed to have forgotten Scott's presence. "Of course, I didn't believe I was young. The young never do. I believed I was becoming terribly old, and I allowed the sentimental desire for my own child to overcome. . ." His voice trailed off and when he spoke again, he seemed more himself. "To quote act one, scene one of _King Lear_ , I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper. Although I suppose that didn't work out so well for old Gloucester. And yet, a man can hardly help but hope that his child --"

Scott, who was behind on his required reading and impatient with metaphor, broke in. "But she wasn't what you wanted, was she?" He remembered the doors of the Nebraska State Home closing on him for the first night and felt a surge of anger run up into his clenched fists. "You talk like you love your daughter, but then you sent her away. You didn't think she was good enough because she's not a mutant."

"Now, now, Cyclops. Putting aside, for a moment, whether such a choice would be the correct one –- your indignation on behalf of another being is very touching, if predictable and misguided. Putting that aside, I would like you to tell me, please. Wherever did you get the idea that my daughter is not a mutant?"

"But – you –" Scott stopped short, more confused than ever. "So why --?" He could think only that Lorna's powers must be at fault, must be so useless or insignificant that Erik was unwilling to place her next to the other students, for fear she wouldn't measure up. "What does she do?"

"Why naturally –" Erik gave a thin smile. "She does what I do."

"But that –" Manipulation of metals, disruption of circuitry, control of magnetic fields, levitation almost to the point of actual flight. For a moment, Scott's instinct as squad leader overrode everything else. "But that would be _great_ to have on the team. Unless. . ." His jaw tightened, and he didn't know where he got the courage. Maybe it was Jean, the way that she loved him, touched him, even admired him. Made him feel, for the first time in eight years, like something more than a foundling, an old glove carelessly cast off and picked up on a whim. He was a man and Jean loved him, and so he could speak his mind, even to the man who had rescued him – reluctantly, he reminded himself, unwillingly, as part of a deal that Scott was only starting to understand. "I remember," he said. "The first day that you and the Professor came to the hospital. I remember you said you would agree to take me only if you got to decide about Lorna. That was your tradeoff. You'd find orphans and people who couldn't control your powers, you'd get us to do your fighting for you. And in exchange, you'd let your own kid live a comfortable life."

"Cyclops, Cyclops." Erik shook his head. "This outburst is refreshingly cynical, coming from you. I'm surprised you have the courage, although –- if it's a reaction to going to bed, for the first time, with a pretty girl, I regret to inform you that the feeling will pass. Whether the girl does or not."

Scott refused to let Erik goad him, not about Jean. He only wondered briefly whether everybody in the world knew the status of his sex life by now. "You're not answering my question." 

"Very well. First of all, for a supposed amnesia patient, you have an annoyingly accurate memory. Second, I either heartlessly abandoned my daughter or I selfishly secured a comfortable life for her, but please have the decency to admit those are mutually exclusive. And last." He sighed. "Lorna has a connection – it's been clear, since she was a child. To the earth. Metals, ores, magnetic forces. When she played dressup, as I suppose children do, she named herself Queen Polaris of the North Star. Magnetic north. She memorized scientific formulae and equations from the cradle, and since she was in school has shown an extraordinary aptitude for studying the earth. These are all, I believe, signs of her connection to the primal magnetic force. But her mutation is latent. Her physical power has yet to manifest."

"I see," Scott said, and he did, but even with his newly minted courage, he couldn't bring himself to suggest, _Maybe you're seeing what you want to see, imagining the whole thing._ He wondered what would happen when the Professors finally finished the machine they were designing, to locate every mutant in the world, if Erik discovered that his daughter was not among them.

"You do not see," Erik answered. "You are wondering why I haven't brought her here for training, helped her to develop her gift. What you forget is that my mutation, like those of many young mutants here, only manifested after a traumatic event. But I don't think, Scott, that I need to remind you."

Two older boys, hands on his shoulders, backing him against the wall. Scott had opened his eyes. Somehow, he had avoided striking them. He tried never to think about, never to connect to the part of him, throbbing at the back of his mind, that continued to be sorry that he had missed.

"Now. Scott. You must see, don't you, that a father could never wish such a thing on his child?"

"So she's a mutant." Scott swallowed his defiance, accepting, at last, that Erik seemed to have a way of knowing. "But _she_ doesn't know. And – how is she just going to roam around here, without figuring a thing or two out?"

"Lorna will, I trust, have a very pleasant visit. I trust you will help me to make sure that this occurs. And, when she leaves, she will know exactly as much as she needs to know and forget the rest. Charles owes me a favor or two, and please don't bother to look shocked. He's capable of much more, and you do yourself no good by pretending not to realize it. Rest assured that Lorna has a role to play, and that I will see to it that all things will be delivered in the fullness of time. Do I make myself clear? "

"You do. I, on the other hand, don't have to like it."

"No. You certainly don't. But you haven't answered my question. What would you do if it were your child? Or perhaps, as determined as you are to prove yourself a man, you are still too young to imagine such a thing. Let me put it another way. What would you do if it were your brother?"

"That's a pointless question," Scott answered. "My brother is norm – I mean, he's a baseline. He's just a regular high school student. He's got no idea what we do here, and – Alex is not a mutant."

"Yes, of course," Erik said. "Pardon me. I have no idea what I was thinking."


	4. Year Fifteen

When Scott and Jean ran into Lorna at the Oakland Airport, it was like a signal from God. _Higher power to Summers_ , the message was saying, _If you think your life is overly complicated right now, well, you ain't seen nothin' yet._ Why Scott's notion of God talked in Bachman Turner Overdrive lyrics was a question for another day, because, in the next moment, Lorna had bounded toward them and drawn them both into a tight hug.

"ScottandJean!" she squealed, saying their names as though they were some kind of symbiote, which was the only way people seemed to say them, anymore. "You have no idea how good it is to see your faces. I took an extra Xanax, but that was in Frankfurt or possibly Houston and I was actually starting to feel like John Lithgow in the _Twilight Zone_ movie." She kept a hand on Jean's shoulder, but leaned more closely into Scott, pressing her substantial breasts against him. He looked, helplessly, over her head at Jean, who backed away and signaled for him to keep hugging their exhausted friend.

"You were – uh – you just got in from Frankfurt?" Scott hadn't seen Lorna since the previous summer, and he never quite managed to keep all her globe-trotting-in-the- interest-of-science-straight.

"No! Reykjavík!" Lorna pulled back and pointed to a pin on the strap of her bag, a rectangle sporting some sort of sideways cross. "Iceland, Scott! But there was an engine problem in Heathrow – which, yes, I believe is actually a part of hell – and so I got bumped and it's been thirty-seven hours and I'm not even sure I have a ride, or even a place to ride _to_. Dr. Amburgey's research assistant Cory was supposed to be here but when I called about the delay, his number was disconnected and it occurred to me that we made the plan four months ago, and I've looked and I've looked and I haven't seen anyone with a sign that says "Lorna Dane," have you seen anyone with a sign that says "Lorna Dane"? And honestly, ScottandJean, what are you doing in Oakland?"

Scott was beginning to wonder whether Lorna's mutant power might, in fact, be the ability to talk for hours without taking a breath. When he realized she was giving him time and space to answer the question, he got as far as "My brother is grad –" when he lost his breath. Probably because he's just been tackled from behind.

"Big brrrrrother!" Alex had an arm around Scott's chest before leaning forward to look at him through the red lenses of his sunglasses. "Oh, good. Scott. I was pretty sure that was you."

"A-a-a-lex." Eyes squeezed shut, Scott reached up to straighten the glasses, which the surprise attack had almost knocked loose. "Don't do that. I might turn around and shoot you by accident."

"Shoot me?" Alex repeated, and Jean, wisely, took the moment to step in and offer her hand.

"It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much.'" Jean's pleasant tone contrasted with the glare she was aiming at Scott. 

"And you. The famous Jean Grey." Alex answered, with an effortless chivalry that was doubly annoying because Scott's ribs still ached from the tackle. He looked up at Lorna. "And you must be --?" 

"Lorna Dane," she said and then, "Don't break your brain trying to remember, Scott won't have mentioned me at all. I'm not part of the gifted school crowd, unless you count that Daddy used to be one of the headmasters. Not anymore and I – Well, I must look a fright. I've spent the last nine months under a volcano." 

The thing was, Scott realized, she _should have_ looked a fright – cargo pants and layers of flannel, loose hair falling out of her bandanna, and the duffel bag that was as tall as she was. Jean was the most beautiful woman Scott knew – an utterly unbiased opinion, of course – but after thirty hours of international travel, she would have insisted on an extended stop at the ladies' room and possibly a beauty parlor before she was even ready to talk to _him_ , much less meet someone new. But Lorna Dane, cheeks flushed and dark eyes wide, very much did _not_ look like hell. And Alex, obviously, knew it. 

First, he reached over to do what Scott clearly should have done – would have, if Lorna had given him time to think – and offered to take the bag. As he did, he fingered the pin on the shoulder strap. "Iceland," he said. "Have you been on the Hotspot project? I'm all kinds of jealous. I put in an application, but I probably have to stay here and T.A. for a year, first. Being part of all that cutting edge research must be incredible."

Lorna laughed, tossing a bit of her hair. "Oh, you know. Only if you fancy tall Nordic men talking about geophysics all day." Her eyes traveled to Alex's pale locks. "Or, I suppose, if you are one."

"We're not Nordic," Scott interjected. "He uses Sun-In."

Jean swatted Scott's back, but she needn't have bothered. Alex was ignoring him, his hand drifting up to touch a loose bit of Lorna's hair. "So is this what happens when you wash your hair with the water at the base, or --?"

"Oh, no. I'm a freak of nature," she said, matter-of-factly. "For years and years I would dye it black. But one day I woke up and I said, "Lorna, if there's something about the way you were born that makes nice-looking men want to put their hands in your hair –" Her fingers closed around Alex's wrist. "When you've hardly even been properly introduced . . ."

Either Jean was picking up on the psychic tension that Scott must have been broadcasting like a satellite radio, or she just knew him that well. Taking Lorna's hand, she said, "Why don't Lorna and I go look for her ride –? And you two can. . . Yeah."

Lorna nodded and started to follow Jean, then came back to get her bag from Alex. "You should talk to me. About Iceland."

"And you should come to my grad party," Alex said. "Tonight. Lots of fun."

"Oh," Lorna brightened. "Party. This is an American custom that I vaguely recall? It's said to involve fun? Maybe you can teach your brother about it." She patted Scott's arm, briefly, lingered a little longer on Alex's and followed Jean down the corridor.

Alex kept looking after her and finally, when the women were out of sight, turned to his brother with a befuddled grin. "Is she really a vulcanologist? Only – God, when you tell this story to our kids, make it so I asked something a lot less nerdy."

"Alex -–"

"Hey! She was flirting, too. Do you really think all your super-special East Coast private school friends are too good for me to talk to? No, wait. I get it." With a mischievous grin, he said, "You're afraid of her dad." 

"What do you know about her dad?" Scott demanded.

Alex blinked. "The headmaster? Well, nothing, except I figure he had all you preppies shaking in your boots." He swatted Scott's shoulder. "I'm not afraid. And I'm not gonna break little Lorna's heart, either. I'm a certified good guy. I have witnesses."

Scott felt an odd relief at the declaration. Not that it actually proved anything. It was easy enough to say. But Scott was struck by his own need to hear it; testimony of how little he really knew his own brother. "It's not her I'm worried about, man," Scott said, weakly. "Her dad really is not a man you want to mess with."

"Don't worry so much, Scottie boy." Alex slapped his back and took Jean's bag out of his hand. "If it comes to that, it'll be my funeral."

"Yeah," Scott muttered. "All the same, I really hope it doesn't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this really needs to lead up to a Living Pharaoh attack on Alex's grad party or Lorna getting kidnapped as Magneto's true heir and they simultaneously realize they are both mutants and fall in love -- so what happens in the comics but hopefully more coherent -- I assume that was what I was working up to when I first wrote it. I'll have to ponder.


End file.
